


Cold-Blooded

by Tertbutyl_Okita



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Good versus Evil, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tertbutyl_Okita/pseuds/Tertbutyl_Okita
Summary: "It started, as all things do, in a graveyard. Where it was, contrary to popular belief, not dark and stormy."In which an angel and a demon play their roles with a little more competency, making Crowley the villain, and Aziraphale the hero.Or so it seems.Anyone ever read Victoria Schwab's Vicious? A Good Omens Vicious AU.





	Cold-Blooded

**Last Night  
** **Tadfield Cemetery**

It started, as all things do, in a graveyard. Where it was, contrary to popular belief, not dark and stormy. Dark and stormy wouldn’t have aided in what Crowley was about to do, anyhow. He was, as Hastur once put it, a ‘flash bastard’.

No, what Crowley really wanted to do, was make a _scene_. It seemed to be the only way to get _his_ attention these days.

A scene needed its supporting actors, and so one Adam Young and one Dog accompanied Crowley, for better or for worse. The young lad sported a shovel slung across his shoulder while his canine companion, so expertly named by his owner, stood defensively in front of him. Adam looked at Crowley expectantly as they stood at the entrance to the graveyard. With Crowley’s recently cut ginger hair and Adam’s disheveled dark mop, it was easy to say that the two were not related. At least, closely. If anyone were to ask Crowley how Adam fit into his life, he would pause for a second before settling on “godson.”

Crowley was the furthest thing from godfather-like, but that protective instinct of his started to kick in again, after being dormant for so long, when he saw the kid walking haphazard on the side of the road. He normally had little regard for other cars and other people when he was pulling 110 mph on the M40 en route to Tadfield, but even he found it unusual that though Adam’s clothes were blood-spattered, the boy was unharmed and just shaken up.

“I was shot at,” Adam had answered, with some careful prodding from Crowley, who, at that point, had decided that the child could be useful for his task at hand, and set about uncovering the rest of his secrets over the course of the last few days.

Now the duo carried their individual shovels towards a newly placed grave, indicated as such by the placement of a tiny red flag. Crowley discreetly kicked it over and gestured to the freshly dug dirt. “Here’s a nice place to start.”

Adam looked uneasily at the dirt and then at Crowley. “You sure no one is around?”

There was a present low hiss in his ears. It was a good sign, then, as opposed to the thousands upon thousands of discombobulated whispers of voices that oftentimes overwhelmed him. The voices, though hard to distinguish, were occasionally picked up on. Telling Crowley to inflict pain and suffering when necessary. “It’s just us and the dead.” He could have said it was just the two of them; they weren’t exactly strangers to death.

“That’s not comforting,” Adam retorted. But Adam could have comforting if he pleased, warping reality with a wave of his fingers. A stroll in the graveyard could turn into a walk on the beach. Though it was best to not tempt the boy towards things that could have been. Time was of the essence.

You see, Crowley had an appointment to keep with someone. Crowley didn’t know how to define his relationship with the person he was meeting, when titles spurred from attachments were such finicky things nowadays. It was hard enough coming up with “godfather” to Adam. Even calling Newt his friend was a little bit of a stretch, as much as he did help Crowley break out of prison.

Though, he fought against society’s unnecessary desire to sort and label everything, to place it in some order, it still was, after all this time, completely natural for Crowley to default to calling this someone ‘Angel’.

His _Angel_ would know something was amiss, that Crowley had re-emerged and somehow escaped an eleven-year stint in prison that felt like an eternity, when the fomenting of mass discord and chaos began. Crowley knew him well – he would be in the middle of sipping on his wine, be it the 1940s Barbaresco or the Baron de Lustrac, eating whatever scrummy cuisine currently caught his interest (recalling speeding by a sushi place on the way over, Crowley pictured that it was sushi), when he would hear something along the lines of “Central London phone lines were tied up” or “massive delays on the M25” through his network, or however Crowley supposed he received information these days. Aziraphale wasn’t really the type to keep up with modern technology, even while they were in uni together all those years back.

Though Crowley’s disturbances appeared to be insignificant, general everyday occurrences even, it spelled the start of what Crowley could _really_ do, which was much worse. He knew how _his Angel_ would react, going towards what he deemed to be the most logical explanation, the one that was ingrained in him from the very beginning – that Crowley, corrupted by his lot and his unfortunate associations, was inherently evil, and had to be stopped at once.

And yet, Crowley knew Aziraphale well; the rose-colored lens through which he saw humanity through were the result of a different type of corruption, hidden in plain sight with the clever guise of his golden-boy upbringing. But since when was the world so black and white? Crowley preferred likening the morals of humanity to a scale, in which good and evil perched precariously on opposing sides. It was easy to cancel out good with evil, an act of kindness countered with an illicit temptation. From what little Crowley remembered of his uni courses, physics argued in favor of this; Newton with his apple (though not the truly infamous apple) would see Crowley and his Angel as a type of equal and opposite action-reaction mechanism.

Suffice it to say that Crowley failed physics. Now philosophy, on the other hand, sauntered right up his alley. That was where the two of them met, after all. For the sake of shifting the moral argument in his favor, he needed to take up the villainous mantle everyone was so keen on giving him. Crowley struck his spade into the dirt, in time to Adam’s shoveling, with each patch of uplifted soil signaling that he was one step closer to his goal.

Aziraphale was waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction for two years and I'm notorious for not finishing a single thing, but I hyperfixated on this fandom and I can't seem to get it out of my system. 
> 
> I adore the work of both Gaiman and Schwab (I will read all of Pratchett's works, and no doubt love them as well), that I wanted to make something that showcases my love for Good Omens and for everything Schwab has written. 
> 
> Future chapters will take their time as I figure out the rest of the plot.
> 
> As always, thank you to Leah for beta-reading and for being my fellow Good Omens fan. :)


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